


who's dying to be mine?

by silenceinmolasses



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dark Stiles, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Vulnerability, friendship fishy af, take this tag with a grain of salt pals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 08:06:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10737594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silenceinmolasses/pseuds/silenceinmolasses
Summary: Scott is ill and feverish and Stiles is there to help him… self.





	who's dying to be mine?

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Simon Curtis’ song “[Hypnotized](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o4ABrV9mfaQ)".
> 
> Please enjoy \o/

Scott hears his front door opening through the fog in his head. He opens one eye: the sun, falling in diagonal lines through the open curtains blurred the checkered blanket he haphazardly threw over himself. It must be an early evening. Scott tries to lift his head and meet the upcoming steps into the living room; they are quick, loud, familiar. He signs and smiles slightly to the thin legs dressed in black jeans with rips across knee areas. 

“You didn’t answer my messages so I invited myself in,” Stiles announces above him. His backpack falls with a thud beside Scott’s head. The noise squeezes his temples and his eyelids fall again, “I would have brought chicken broth or something, if I knew you were sick,” Stiles continues conversationally. He goes away for a minute and the biting setting sun disappears as the curtains close. Scott’s face immediately grows cooler, more comfortable and he realized how thirsty he is.

“I have crackers, though,” Stiles sits on the floor next to him. Scott hears rustling, “and… half a pack of gummy bears? Well, shit. You think Melissa was serious when she forbade me to use your kitchen?”

Scott laughs weakly and tries to open his eyes again. Stiles’ face is right here, amber eyes staring at him, eyebrows furrowed in concentration like this is a case that needs to be solved. He smells of boyish sweat and something spicy underneath like a cinnamon stick left too long in an oven. 

“Can you bring me water?” Scott mutters. Stiles continues to stare.

“I don’t know. Did you tell me that you were sick?” he shrugs. Scott tries to laugh, coughs instead, and when he tries to sit up, all of his bones protesting, Stiles with one hand easily holds him down. His fingers grip the flimsy T-shirt material. His hand comes up to Scott’s throat which already feels stuffed and vulnerable. A thumb presses against his Adam’s apple. 

“Promise you will tell me next time,” Stiles brushes his palm across Scott’s mouth. There’s snot but he does not seem to care.

“It’s okay,” Scott exhales against the dry fingers, “I will feel better tomorrow.”

“If I take care of you, you will,” Stiles’ gaze never wavers, “cool then. Have a cracker,” he removes his hand and opens a small bag. The cookies are sprinkled with big crystals of salt and cut in shapes of dinosaurs. They’re Scott’s favorite. Stiles messily takes a bite.

Scott feels uncomfortable. His throat is full with thirst.

“I promise,” he does not remember what anymore.

“Strengthen your promise with a kiss,” Stiles does not move. There are cookie crumbs in the corners of his lips.

“Stiles, come on,” Scott almost whines. Stiles takes it as an agreement and moves closer. He is deliberately slow. His eyes are dark, speckled with something Scoot can’t name.

Scott leans in and their lips meet. It’s brief, chaste. Salty.

“Alrighty. Lie down,” Stiles easily stands up. Worm-like muscles jump under his skin as he stretches. He meets Scott’s eyes with a big smile.

Scott closes his eyes and after a second Stiles’ hands cradles his head, lifting him from the musty pillow. He moans crankily but then there is a cup near his lips and lukewarm, blissful water enters his mouth. It feels almost solid, it feels good. Scott greedily sucks it in.

“Easy,” Stiles chuckles above him. His hands cradle Scott’s skull like it is a glass bowl for him to drink from.

“Thanks,” Scott gulps noisily. His skin is stretched tight all over his body. It’s _hothothot_ , and tiring.

“Come on. Take a bite, for me,” Stiles holds a cracker near his mouth.

“I wanna sleep,” Scott pathetically complains and yet obediently opens his mouth. The cookie is hard and feels bigger than it is, lying heavily on his tongue. He stays like that for some time. Then he blushes and takes a bite. It crumbles, making him cough. Stiles gives him to drink. The water tastes almost sweet.

“You slept when you didn’t answer,” Stiles steps back to put the food on the table. When Scoot can’t take it anymore and his eyelids droop again, he doesn’t stir him. Instead, he kneels near the bed, putting his head to where Scott’s lap is hidden under the stuffy blanket. They lie like that for a while together in a comfortable dimness. Scott can’t sleep anymore. The warmth in his lower belly is heavy but he is too feverish even to properly get hard. But then Stiles nuzzles closer, arms coming to rest on Scott’s thighs. 

“Oh,” he simply says. Stiles looks up at him. He does not look interested in resting; instead, his red lips are beaming.

Stiles throws the blanket on the floor, hands pulling Scott’s T-shirt up. There is a noticeable bulge in his slacks.

“Leave it alone,” Scott murmurs and tries to move Stiles’ hand away but it is greedy and wiry and strong beneath his attempts. His sweaty fingers wrap around a paler limb. Stiles unceremoniously shoves him away.

“Don’t be silly, you will feel better,” he admonishes and takes him out. Scott sighs when Stiles pumps his cock slowly, running his nails over the hardening flesh.

“Stiles,” Scott tries again, his chest constricting as he coughs harshly in arousal. He squeezes his eyes shut from the headache, shivering as Stiles grips him and engulfs him in his mouth. Scott grips the pillow as Stiles licks his dick in slow, measured strokes, sloppily sucking on the head. Scott moans miserably, drowning, ensnared in his clothes and Stiles.

“ _Stiles!_ ” Scott tries to sound disagreeing, though it comes out needy even to his own ears. He weakly pushes Stiles’ shoulder but then swift fingers catch his, entangling them together. Scott takes comfort in the gesture, somewhat, before Stiles runs his tongue across the slit and he comes all over his exposed stomach.

Tears block Scott’s vision as he opens his eyes. Stiles looks relaxed, his lips glazed with spit. Scott’s eyelids fall.

“See, it’s better,” he stands up and stalks out of the room. Scott continues to lie, goosebumps erupting across his arms. He feels sticky. 

A wet warm cloth brushes across his lower belly and his limp dick. Stiles dresses him again, lovingly placing the blanket around him. Soft wet lips touch his and Scott kisses back. Maybe he is dreaming.

“Go to sleep,” Stiles says, sitting down on the floor, “I will be here when you wake up,” he promises and then brushes Scott’s tears, smearing them across his hot parted mouth.


End file.
